Page 6 of Nobody’s Angel (World of de Wolfe Pack #5)

T he sun was setting over the green hills and valleys of Wrexham and the sky was awash in shades of pink and lavender as the Beresford carriage bounced and squeaked its way into the quaint market town.

Brynne drew his cloak more firmly about his shoulders, for the night chill penetrated the thick wool while he rode beside the carriage.

After their repast at the Towton Inn, he’d assisted Lettie into the carriage but had decided to ride alongside on Valiant rather than risk more time alone in that enclosed compartment with Lettie.

The skittish gelding had managed the journey with ease, but suddenly developed a limp as they turned up the drive to Wolverton Grange which was Lady Frances’ house.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered into the wind, hoping the injury was minor. “Not far now, Valiant.”

Lady Frances lived in a stately manor house on a quiet street in the bustling town. They’d passed lots of shops and several fashionable residences, keeping to the better part of town although Wrexham was fairly prosperous and even the lower classes seemed to live comfortably, Brynne noted.

When Valiant’s limp became more pronounced, he dismounted and walked his trusted mount the short distance to the portico.

Within moments, grooms rushed forward to tend to the horses and footmen attended to Lettie and her trunks.

One of the older grooms came up to him. “I see he’s limping, sir. May I take a look at him?”

“It would be most appreciated.” Brynne had intended to examine Valiant’s foreleg himself, but there was something in the way this older man handled the horse that spoke of experience far greater than his own.

It took the man, an Irishman by the name of Seamus, no time to determine Valiant’s injury was a bruised foreleg that would heal nicely with a few days’ rest. “Three days, sir. He’ll be galloping across the fields like a colt by then. I have a liniment that ought to soothe him.”

“Three days?”

Seamus nodded. “Funny how these things happen. One can never tell with these horses. Ye think ye have a sturdy beast and find he’s as delicate as a society debutante.”

Brynne stared after the groom as he walked Valiant to the stables. His massive beast did not look at all like a delicate young woman. “Three days,” he muttered to himself, trudging into the house to greet Lady Frances.

Lettie obviously hadn’t heard the remark. She stared at him while wringing her gloved hands. “Brynne, you don’t need to rush off right away.”

He ran a hand roughly through his hair, knowing by her quickening breaths and the utter desolation on her face that she thought this was to be their farewell. He saw the tears already forming in her eyes, their usually vibrant green depths devoid of mirth or brilliance. “Valiant’s leg is bruised.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” Then her eyes widened. “What does that mean exactly?”

“I can’t leave yet.” He turned to Frances. “Your head groom is taking care of him as we speak. May I impose upon your generosity to permit Valiant to remain here until he recovers? I will, of course, arrange for accommodations for myself at one of the local inns.”

“Nonsense,” Frances retorted. “You’ll stay right here with us. I won’t hear of you staying anywhere else. Indeed, I’ll take it as a personal affront.”

“So will I,” Lettie said, tipping her chin up and now smiling as though she’d just bested Napoleon at Waterloo.

He raised his hands in resignation. “Very well. I know when I’m defeated.”

Lettie closed her eyes and clasped her hands together as though in prayer. “What are you doing, Lettie?”

“Thanking… you know who… for answering my prayers.”

Frances cast her a benevolent smile, no doubt believing Lettie was referring to a much higher authority than a wayward guardian angel by the name of Jeremiah.

“You’ll stay for the holidays, I hope. We celebrate quietly with several of the local families at Lord de Wolfe’s home.

His family history is most interesting.”

Brynne quirked an eyebrow. “I know the name. Where have I heard it before?”

“No doubt in your history lessons.” Frances led them into her parlor and rang for refreshments which were quickly brought in and set out.

“Lord de Wolfe’s family fought for the Lancastrian kings.

They were highly regarded knights who battled bravely against the Yorkist forces. The de Wolfe men, the Le Becs, and–”

Lettie gasped. “The wolf! And the roses, as in the War of the Roses. There was a terrible battle. The de Wolfes were a part of it and… and…” She arched an eyebrow and stared at Brynne urging him to acknowledge that her guardian angel was making a connection between him and the de Wolfe family. “Aunt Frances, please tell us more.”

Frances nodded as she poured tea into their cups and offered them scones and cakes.

“They fought not far from here. The battle of Towton. Thousands of men died, their blood turning the fields into streams of red.” She shook her head and sighed, setting down the slice of cake she’d just cut for herself. “A terrible tragedy.”

She was about to explain more, but her housekeeper begged forgiveness for the interruption and sought advice from Frances. “Excuse me,” she said and momentarily left to attend to the domestic crisis.

Brynne groaned as Lettie began to squirm in her chair excitedly and then turned to him in expectation. “Isn’t it wonderful, Brynne?”

“No.” She was going to lead him on a useless chase to track down his family, a family that obviously didn’t wish to be found.

“They’re here,” she said softly. “The wolf. The roses. That’s what Jeremiah was trying to tell me.”

“It’s all coincidental,” he insisted. “Hundreds of battles took place all over England during the War of the Roses.”

“And what of the wolf?”

“Need I remind you of your aunt’s name? Wolverton.” He sighed and rolled his eyes.

Lettie scowled at him. “Why are you being so difficult? Jeremiah was most certainly not referring to the Wolvertons, but to the de Wolfe family.”

He still wasn’t convinced. “A name you must have heard during your studies, but at the time it made no impression on you. In your sleep, the memory of those studies crept back into your head. That’s the only reason why you’ve conjured them now.”

She moved to the edge of the green silk sofa and leaned close to his chair. “Three days, you said. Will you give me those three days to prove you wrong? We can investigate together. Don’t you wish to know if you’re somehow connected to the de Wolfe family?”

He ought to have said no, for there wasn’t a chance in hell that he was related to so powerful and respected a family. Such families do not drop their children on a stranger’s doorstep in the middle of winter.

Nor were he and Lettie ever likely to discover who his parents were.

There simply wasn’t enough time. More important, Lettie was looking for her Bert, or whatever combination of B-E-R-T that might fit to reveal the man of her dreams. It wasn’t him and he wasn’t about to help her find the man who fit that description.

“Please, Brynne. It’s a good plan.”

It was a terrible plan, but Lettie had that determined pout on her pretty face that warned he wasn’t going to win this battle.

The names tossed about earlier, Le Bec and de Wolfe, had no letters in common with that of Lettie’s future husband.

“I’ll consider it, but you must promise not to get your hopes up. We aren’t likely to succeed.”

“You’re wrong, Brynne. We have Jeremiah on our side.” She laughed softly, then gasped and looked upward, obviously behaving as though Jeremiah– who was fast becoming the bane of Brynne’s existence– was present.

He frowned. “Damn it, Lettie. Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” She let out a hearty chortle. “Oh, dear!”

“Fine, I’ll go along with your prank.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “What’s your incompetent angel telling you now?”

She blushed. “I can’t repeat it. But he wanted me to remind you that he’s a warrior angel, and if you insult him again, he’ll kick your scrawny… well, you get the point. However, he’s ever hopeful that one day you’ll believe he exists.”

No chance. He didn’t believe in angels.

“And he’s sorry about Valiant. There was no other way to make you stay. He wishes to assure you that Valiant is in no pain.”

“Stop it, Lettie.” Valiant happened to injure his foreleg. Jeremiah had nothing to do with it because the guardian angel didn’t exist.

Lettie was no closer to finding her Bert.

And he was no closer to finding out who the hell he was.

“Goodnight,” Lettie said with a yawn, closing her book as she rose from her comfortable chair in the Wolverton study to retire to her quarters. The clock on the mantel had just chimed ten o’clock, and though she often stayed up later, the events of the day had tired her out.

“Goodnight, my dear,” Frances said, gazing up to smile at her.

She had settled in an embroidered chair beside her writing desk, a lamp on that desk providing sufficient illumination for her aging eyes while she read the local scandal sheet.

According to Frances, it was mostly about the quieter goings on at Bath and not nearly as interesting as the London gossip rags.

Brynne was seated in one of the overstuffed leather chairs near the fireplace, nursing a whiskey, no doubt irritated and grudgingly mulling what she’d earlier said about investigating his family connections.

He rose at the same time she did, as expected out of courtesy.

“Sweet dreams, Lettie,” he said in a husky rumble, surprising her by the tenderness in his tone.

He never seemed to lose patience with her, even though she had obviously rankled him earlier with talk of Jeremiah.

“You too, Brynne.” Jeremiah did exist, whether or not he believed it. With her guardian angel’s help, she was going to provide Brynne the answer to the question that had plagued him all of his life.

Who am I?

It was one of the great philosophical questions.